


Party Favors

by thememoriesfire



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-23
Updated: 2011-08-23
Packaged: 2017-10-22 23:41:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/243863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thememoriesfire/pseuds/thememoriesfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santana hates going to Rachel's friends' parties.  Rachel has a system in place for making them bearable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Party Favors

**Author's Note:**

> NB, this was written as sort of a smutty future outtake for Eyes Closed to Fingers Crossed, but really, you don't need to have read that to read this, and it doesn't fit anywhere logical in the chronology of that anymore.

She fucking _hates_ Rachel’s friends’ parties.

Like, _hates them_.  Her friends all pretentious douches who think that she’s somehow failing at life because she’s chosen to do a normal degree and is considering a normal career or whatever.  Also, they all think she doesn’t have any sort of artistic talent.  Rachel has been _begging_ her to sing in front of them for months now, but she’s waiting for the right time to absolutely blow their minds.

Seriously.   _Fuck_ them.

There’s seriously only one way that Rachel invariably gets her to come along to these kinds of things, and that’s a serious exchange of favors.  It’s how she’s ended up here tonight, spending her Saturday night at some sort of post-premiere thing for a show Rachel isn’t even _in_ and where half the people in the room are actually strangers.

“Please?” Rachel had said.  “It’s a good opportunity to for me to meet people.  I might get work out of this, and now that you’re saving for law school, we could _use_ the money.”

“On one condition,” Santana had finally agreed, after some orchestrated begging and planning and outlining and persuading.

The basic moral here is: sometimes, it’s just easier to give Rachel what she wants.

*

So, party favors.

Watching Rachel make rounds at parties used to be fucking ridiculous, what with her 1980s stewardess antics and her inability to _not_ converse with everyone, but whatever, with repeat exposure, there is a bright side to everything.

Tonight, there’s actually something kind of fucking hot of just something about just sitting on a couch on the other side of the room and watching Rachel move around and charm a bunch of dancers, producers, performers and other fucking douchebags who all _wish_ they could tap that.  

Seriously, people are so fucking stupid; she’s seen at least three guys try to slip Rachel their number by now, and she smiles and lets them give her business cards and slips of paper with scribbles on them--but not before shooting the most vainly pleased look across the room.

The one that says, _now you’re going to have to fuck me so hard that I’m going to forget about_ three _guys wanting me, Santana._

 _Bitch,_ she thinks, trying not to smile.  

Part of the game they’re playing tonight is to not let on that a game is being played, and today she’s pretending to be some distant friend of Rachel’s or something; they didn’t even walk in together, and Santana looks way out of place anyway.  

Some girl with an obvious nipple piercing came up to her a while ago and said, “Are you like, part  of the crew or whatever?” which, _seriously?_ Okay, maybe she _does_ look like a fucking roadie or something.  That’s all Rachel’s fault, with her retarded fascination for seeing Santana “embrace the stereotypes.”

If not for the _proven_ knowledge that this will be worth it at the end of the night, she would’ve fucking strangled Rachel at the announcement that for her share of the party favors, Santana would have to wear jeans and a wifebeater and drink cheap beer all night.

“How is _any_ of that sexy.  That’s like calling Burt Hummel sexy,” she’d complained.

Rachel had just smiled and flicked at her chin.  “You lack imagination.”

“ _Not_ what you said last week when I fucked you up--”

Rachel clears her throat.  “Yes, well, anyway.  I look ridiculous in tank tops, whereas you’ve already demonstrated an unusual interest for randomly slapping my ass, so I think the whole wifebeater look will work for you.”

Whatever, Rachel.

But here she is anyway, sipping at a Corona, because nobody at at fucking cast party serves lager.  The thing that’s made it worthwhile?  Well, Rachel is wearing _that dress_.   

Now that she’s being _honest_ about her feelings, she can pinpoint this particular fantasy to junior year, when Kurt had tried to basically fuck Rachel over in a serious way by forcing her to slut it up to get Finn Hudson’s attention--who of course was too fucking dumb to realize a seriously good thing when it was prancing up and down the halls of McKinley like some sort of motherfucking high class escort service.

That shit had for real sent Santana spiralling back into a sexual identity crisis.  She’d actually spent ten minutes trying to find out what the hell it was called if you fucked boys, girls, _and_ annoying midgets with tranny face, before deciding that pansexual was a stupid ass word and maybe she just had a thing for black dresses.

Dealing with it at the time had been--okay, so maybe she’d kind of been a bitch about it, insisting Puck fucked her from behind while she had her eyes closed and was just thinking about backing Rachel up against the sink in the girl’s bathroom and giving her the world’s most impromptu fingerfucking of her life.  

(A serious part of this fantasy had been the idea of Rachel screeching, “Santana!  What are you doing, this is totally uncouth!”.  

In retrospect, it had been bizarrely in character for a stupid, _I barely know her dwarfish ass_ fantasy, actually; last summer, in attempting to go down on Rachel in her dads’ Volvo, Rachel had been like,  “Santana!  This isn’t appropriate behavior in one of the world’s safest passenger vehicles that oh, right, belongs to my fathers!”

 _Not_ a sentence that she ever thought would make her uncomfortably wet, but whatever, she is perfectly fine to go with the flow.)

Anyway, that black dress has been repressed wank fodder for the past five years, and somehow she’s only _now_ brought it up as a party favor, but no matter.  Rachel’s totally game.  (Of _course_ she is.  Anything that sounds vaguely like it might be acting practice and Rachel pounces on that shit like a tiger would on a baby lamb.)  

The only part of it that sucks is that party favors are an _exchange_ , and so here she is, sitting on a sofa in jeans and a wifebeater (granted, the jeans are skinny black Sevens and the wifebeater is Calvin Klein, so suck on _that_ , lesbians) necking a Corona, and across the room, Rachel is in a different little black dress, still looking for all intents and purposes like she’s the kind of girl whose ass could be palmed before you ask her what her hourly rate is.   

Rachel likes the attention; Santana likes the certainty of who’s going to fucking her later that night.  It’s not an unusual thing for either of them, but here’s what clinched tonight’s fun and games:

Rachel _normally_ wears underwear.

Santana’s jeans are like, uncomfortably fucking tight right now, and that Corona is not getting her drunk nearly fast enough--and now the _fourth_ number is being penned onto Rachel’s arm, and Santana’s starting to think that maybe an hour of across-the-room foreplay is all she can handle these days.  

(She’s not getting _soft_ ; she’s just only gotten to fuck Rachel like several hundred times at this point and that is not _nearly_ enough.)

She knows that some of her thoughts are on display when Rachel gently excuses herself and sort of _saunters_ over, that big fucking half-gay, before sitting down next to her and saying, “You hitting the vocal coach for next season’s biggest production in the face is _not_ part of my fantasies, for the record.”

“I’m going to lift up that dress half an inch and fuck you in the stairwell in five minutes; and if you can be quiet, I’ll eat you out immediately afterwards,” Santana says, finishing the Corona and setting it on the floor without even looking at Rachel.

Four people thought they were going to be tapping that, and four people are fucking _stupid_.

It’s hard not to be smug.

*

Rachel had been a little opposed to public fucking when they first got together.

“We’re special.  I don’t want to do anything to cheapen our relationship,” she’d said, all earnestly, and Santana had tried not to laugh but, like, really.

“Baby, you’re adorable, but you’re going to have to trust me when I say that I probably know you better than you know yourself when it comes to sex.”

So what if it had come across as a little patronising?  She’d been completely right.

Point in case:

”Fuck me, you are _dripping_ ,” Santana says, laughing, before pressing Rachel into the wall with a soft thud.  “You’re lucky I pulled you out here when I did; your business was going to get embarrassing in about--”

“Don’t be disgusting, and stop wasting time,” Rachel hisses.  “We have at best like, five minutes--”

“Whatever, I’ll need about half of those,” Santana murmurs against her neck, and Rachel does that little gasping thing and then _bam_ , her legs spread, just like that.  

It is insane to think that people still think of Rachel as being high maintenance and uncooperative; her hips sure as fuck aren’t, all bucking forward and angling towards Santana’s gently teasing fingers.  

“You look so good when you’re a little boyish,” Rachel gasps, which--Santana pulls away and almost scowls at her, and Rachel laughs breathlessly before moaning when Santana’s fingers slide against her clit for just a second.  “What, I can’t find you sexy in different ways?”

Fair point.  She leans forward again and sucks on Rachel’s collarbone, which results in another one of those keening little noises, and man, Rachel’s career would be _over_ if anyone caught them.

She says that part out loud, and Rachel’s hips jerk forward roughly again; it’s too fucking easy, really, and to think that Rachel had _no_ idea she had a little bit of a risk-taking exhibitionist side to her.

“Will you _stop_ fucking around,” Rachel says, bossily and huffily, like _that’s_ going to get her anywhere.

Santana laughs right in her ear, which sends like a full-body shiver through Rachel.  In response, Rachel reaches down and digs her nails into Santana’s wrist, which shouldn’t _be_ hot, but fuck, it _totally_ is.

“You are driving me crazy,” Rachel says, and Santana pulls her in for a kiss, because fuck their make-up and fuck the idea that Rachel _could_ be quiet.  With every pull of Santana’s fingers there are these ridiculously hot little whimpers coming from her throat and they’re only going to keep building, the more targeted her stroking gets.  “It’s--oh, _God._ ”

“It’s what?”

“A bad idea. I’m crazy enough,” Rachel manages, and Santana rolls her eyes because, really, Rachel?   _Puns?_

“What have you told people about me tonight?” she asks, pulling away for a second; Rachel’s face is all flushed and breathless and _man_ , Santana would like to go back in time and slap her 17 year old self across the skull, because she could’ve probably been tapping this for _so much longer_ than she has been.  

There is literally _nothing_ more enjoyable than Rachel biting her lip, closing her eyes, and grinding against her hand like a cat in fucking heat.

(The best thing about Rachel Berry: she’s so goddamned shameless.  

It’s another thing Rachel didn’t know about herself, but something that had become clear to the entire block within a month of them dating and Rachel had spent a good twenty minutes losing her mind about the idea of _slow and steady_ before finally yelling, “Oh my God, Santana, if you don’t fuck me harder _right now_ I am going to kill you!”

Loudly.

Very loudly.)

“You’re my gay roommate, and I’m taking pity on you tonight because of your desperately misguided crush on me,” Rachel says, her eyes rolling back when Santana angles her fingers inside and curls them upwards.  “Which, you know, who could blame you?  I’m incredibly attractive--”

Santana laughs again and then gets distracted by Rachel fluttering gently around her fingers; it’s good, but there’s other stuff that would be better.

“Fuck this; you’re coming in my mouth,” she mumbles, gently pulling her hand away and then bringing it up between them.  “Seriously.  Look at this.  I _need_ to fucking taste you.”

Rachel’s groan echoes around them in the stairwell.  Santana figures one of them should care about the noise level, but it’s totally not going to be her.

She presses her lips against Rachel’s one last time, biting gently on Rachel’s bottom lip.  “You’re going to need to bite down on your own hand, baby.  You good?”

“I can do that,” Rachel promises, locking eyes with her for just a moment before Santana drops to her knees and pushes those three-or-so ass-covering stretches of fabric up just a little bit more.

The taste of Rachel mixed with the beer is like a kick to the skull, really, and Santana savors it with a small hum until Rachel, that impatient little bitch, screws a hand into her ponytail and pulls on it hard.  “You can take your time _later_.  Hurry up, so we can go back inside and gloat.”

It’s a weird moment to realize that she’s completely fucking in love, but it sort of happens anyway, and so she indulges; sucks a small little heart-shaped hickey right on Rachel’s left inner thigh, and feels herself clench pointlessly when Rachel hisses desperately when she pulls away.

“Brace yourself,” she warns, because this is going to be fast and messy, and Rachel tilts against the wall just a little bit more before Santana lifts one of her legs and fuck, she’s _so_ wet.  She’s so wet that there’s not even a chance in hell of getting enough friction to get her off right away, and so Santana twists her fingers back inside and takes her time licking Rachel clean.

She glances up just long enough to see Rachel biting down furiously on her own hand, which is only doing _so_ much to diminish her moaning, and then flattens her tongue against Rachel’s clit in a single slow pull.  

It’s almost enough, and Rachel’s knees basically buckle, which distracts her for just a few fucking seconds.  (Seriously, she’s only fucking _human_ , and there is some serious throbbing going on in her pants right now.)

“C’mon c’mon c’mon,” Rachel’s mumbling above her, around her own fingers, and Santana smirks before curling her tongue around Rachel’s clit and sucking on it gently.

She really _should_ be ready for just how hard Rachel’s hips snap when she comes by now, but she still almost loses an eye, because fuck if she isn’t going to let Rachel ride this out completely.  That takes a good few seconds, and damn, Rachel’s muffled cry against her hand just makes her want to go for seconds.

Her excuse: they can _hardly_ go back into the party with Rachel like this, her inner thighs sticky as fuck and her dress way, way, _way_ too short.  It’s only charitable to stay down there and make sure Rachel’s presentable again, and the best way of accomplishing that is with her mouth, basically, so--

“Oh, _fuck,_ ” Rachel moans, loudly, her hand having dropped aimlessly to her side.

One careful nail-stroke against the side of her clit later, and Rachel spasm against her again, a little more gently this time.

Santana wipes a hand past her mouth and gets up a little unsteadily (whatever, she’s not above admitting that she could use a cold shower or like six orgasms right now) and then rolls her eyes when Rachel just reaches for her mouth and blots at it with her thumb.

“You totally have sex lips,” Rachel says, which--

“Do I?  Shit.  You look fine,” Santana says, and it’s true--Rachel’s already pretty much composed again, her chest just heaving a little bit, and even though Santana knows what that look in her eyes is right now, it’s not likely that anyone at the party would figure it out.  

“It’s okay, they’re not so bad.  Just fix your hair before you come back in,” Rachel says, kissing her deeply (with a surprised little ‘mm’ noise, which basically resonates _right_ in Santana’s groin) and then patting her cheek.  “See you soon.”

*

She gets a text from Quinn about half an hour later.

 _At the worst party ever.  So bored._

Santana glances to where Rachel is smarming up some piano player from a musical or something, and says, _Try getting your fuck on in the stairwell; seriously improved my evening.  Love ya!_

It’s hard to say what’s better; the sure knowledge that Quinn is probably having a seizure right now, halfway across the country, or the sure knowledge that she’s pretty damn lucky to be able to fuck her girlfriend anytime, anywhere.

Rachel glances at her and places a finger on her wrist before tapping it twice, which is Rachel code for _we’re getting out of here soon and I’m not going to let you get any sleep for the next six hours_.

 _I hate you and your pathological inability to stop telling me about all the things you and Manhands do together,_ Quinn texts back.

She grins, and winks at Rachel, who blushes and then turns her attention back to her conversation.

*

She fucking _hates_ Rachel’s friends’ parties.  

Rachel has a pretty good system in place for making them bearable, though.


End file.
